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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27993477">Christmas, 1999</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blessedindeed/pseuds/Blessedindeed'>Blessedindeed</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirtymudblood/pseuds/dirtymudblood'>dirtymudblood</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas Fluff, F/M, Loss of Virginity, Post-War, War</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 18:28:42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,010</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27993477</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blessedindeed/pseuds/Blessedindeed, https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirtymudblood/pseuds/dirtymudblood</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>And now, he and she meet at the invisible lines drawn by people who died long before they were even born. Pure and mud. They’re in no-man’s land.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>281</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Deck The Halls with Dramione</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Christmas, 1999</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I had the extreme pleasure of being asked by LadyKenz347 to partake in her Christmas collab event. Even more-so, I am honored to have been paired up with BookLoverDream who created this beautiful, chilling, expressive art that inspired this fic. You can see her art below: </p><p>Fanart by BookLoverDream</p><p>  <a href="Tumblr">https://bookloverdream-blessedindeed.tumblr.com/</a></p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>  </p>
<p> </p>

<p></p><div class="author">
  <p class="single-quote">
    <em>Christmas waves a magic wand over this world, and behold, everything is softer and more beautiful.</em>
  </p>
  <p></p>
  <div class="author">
    <p>
      <em>-Norman Vincent Peale</em>
    </p>
  </div>
  <div class="icons wrap-ico">
    <p> </p>
  </div>
</div><hr/>
<p>There is nothing more tragic, more captivating than war during Christmas. </p>
<p>Outside, it’s beautiful. It’s pale and pristine, and blankets of snow cover the blood and dead bodies. It’s a blank slate, if only until the snow melts, revealing the stained grass and decomposition of the real world. The world beyond Christmas. </p>
<p>On Christmas Day in 1914 there was a truce between the German and British soldiers. It started with the Germans crossing no-man’s-land and ended with men exchanging what little they had left to give: cigarettes, plum pudding, and songs. For a moment, there was peace. </p>
<p>Beyond this story is the truth. These people were fighting someone else's war. At home they have families celebrating silently, perhaps glancing a little too long at the empty seats at the table, reminded of their mortality, their shared existence. </p>
<p>And now, he and she meet at the invisible lines drawn by people who died long before they were even born. Pure and mud. They’re in no-man’s land. </p>
<p>Under the soft glow of the street lamps they’re alone, together. But for how long? It’s never long enough. They’ve met before, in dark halls at Hogwarts where they  shared whispers of what they wished was different, timid kisses just to see what it would feel like. Meetings that would stay between them and the walls. </p>
<p>They always knew each time they parted that it might be their last, but none had felt more final than this. He had sent her an owl just moments before, a small window of opportunity that had them sneaking away without their coats to find each other in the snow. </p>
<p>They remember all the Christmases before this. She watching her parents sway to the holiday music that came through the small radio and how that tiny box played such a beautiful sound was the only magic Hermione knew. He sneaking an extra serving of his mother’s English trifle, the sugar and sherry making his jaw tingle while his mother pretends she doesn’t notice. </p>
<p>They think of all the Christmases that will evidently come after, whether or not they survive to see it.  They find comfort standing in front of each other, as one is just as real as the other. It makes them think of Christmas spent at Hogwarts with roaring fires and a hot plate of stew. But somehow it’s even warmer between them now, even in the snow. </p>
<p>The snow that latches and then soaks into the thin material of their jumpers numb their arms. They cling to each other. Cling to the warmth they can find in no-man's-land. Trying to find some semblance of what Christmas used to be. </p>
<p>“This doesn’t mean anything, Granger.” His breath is warm across her cheek and her chapped lips as she wets them. </p>
<p>He’s wrong. It means everything.</p>
<p>And when he kisses her, finally, there is peace between them. She can hear the low carols of the radio station in each of his groans and he can taste the sweetness of a trifle in her breath. They offer each other what little they have to give.</p>
<p>It shocks them, like being thrown into a hot bath after spending hours in the cold. But it seeps into their skin and finally, there’s relief. </p>
<p>Her hands reach for the clenched fists at his side, rubbing soothing circles around his knuckles until he finally opens his palm to her. Letting her slip her frozen fingers into the warmth of his hand and besides where their lips are pressed together, it’s the only place they’re touching. </p>
<p>Until he pushes forward, just one step between them has his chest against hers. He surrounds her from all sides. Not knowing where she ends and he begins.</p>
<p>His hands reach up to plunge into her hair, turning her head up to offer her neck to him and her face to the sky. The hot breath on her pulse as he sucks and nibbles is in stark contrast to the flakes of snow that fall onto her upturned cheeks. </p>
<p>Her hands, with numb fingers and chapped palms, reach out to find warmth under the thick stitching of his jumper. The skin under her hands is taunt and spasms with every touch. He’s thinner now, thinner than she remembers since the last time she felt these ribs. But he’s here. And he’s warm. </p>
<p>She takes it from him, running her hands across his stomach and sides until her fingers tingle with renewed life. He sucks her bottom lip into his mouth and bites harshly in retaliation. </p>
<p>His own hands drop from her hair to the hemline where her jumper meets her trousers. But instead of going up into her shirt, they travel to the button and zipper where he toys with them cautiously. </p>
<p>They’ve experimented before. An innocent kiss that was <em> just wanting to know what it feels like </em> turns into <em> what if I kiss you here, what if I touch you there? </em> But they never ventured further than that. They were always too young, too different, what if they were caught, his father would kill him, her friends wouldn’t understand, it was <em> wrong.  </em></p>
<p>They didn’t feel that way now. They have never felt more sure, more similar, more <em> right </em>than in this moment. Hermione nods against his lips. </p>
<p>They were too hot now, like the moments before frostbite turns deadly. A trickle of sweat beads and falls down his chest and catches in between her fingertips. </p>
<p>A twig snaps nearby and Hermione gasps quietly. They jump back from each other and Hermione feels a hand on her wrist tugging her backwards into the thick patch of trees. </p>
<p>Draco’s body presses her between his chest and the trunk of the tree, the bark digging painfully through the thin material of her shirt and scratching the skin of her back. He’s hiding her body with his. No matter who’s behind them, it can’t be good. </p>
<p>A deer prances nearby, crunching the new snow and the uncovered fallen branches with his hooves. He stops when he notices the pair, wiggling his nose as if sniffing out a predator. When he’s satisfied that they’re just as much prey as he is, he walks off. </p>
<p>Draco breathes out a relieved sigh, his chest heaving and pressing her breast against him. </p>
<p>The moment is ruined, she thinks. Just as all other moments. They got to pretend, even for just a few moments, that they were normal. That they weren’t <em> he </em> and <em> she </em> and the snow wasn’t covering a war ground. </p>
<p>“We should—” she began to whisper, about to direct them back to their sides. He cuts her off, slamming his lips against hers and willing the moment to return to them. </p>
<p>Hermione swallows. That was a close call, too close, and perhaps they should just return to where they belong. But he’s already unbuttoning her jeans, no hesitation this time. She doesn’t protest. </p>
<p>It’s only ever been him and only ever been innocent petting. She tries to stay quiet as his cold fingers begin to descend and explore the places she’s explored before, alone in her dorm room after they parted ways. </p>
<p>She wants to direct him <em> touch here, like this, faster </em>but they can’t risk the sounds. Instead she brings her own hand down to guide him gently. Pushing her trousers to her knees until she’s bared to him and the trees. </p>
<p>His hands are trembling against her, from nerves she knows now and inexperience. A particularly well tuned flick of his middle finger causes her to gasp and his other hand flies to her mouth, muffling any further sounds. She thinks he might be angry that she might have drawn attention to them, but his eyes are blazing and on her like they’ve never seen anything so magnificent as her under him moaning. </p>
<p>She reaches forward this time, palming over the front of his slacks to find what she’s looking for. When her fingers graze a hard, taunt surface he jerks and shivers. His eyes press closed as if he’s in pain and just as she’s about to pull away, his hips buck forward to ask for more. </p>
<p>They’re distracted by each other: both by the pleasure they’re experiencing and the pleasure they’re giving. </p>
<p>She’s the one who undoes his zipper and his button. If it’s going to happen, it must be now. There’s no time to explore the erogenous zones of the neck, the inner thighs, the back of the knees. This isn’t for pleasure, it’s for survival. </p>
<p>She shimmies her bottoms down to the ground and steps one leg out of them. Just enough to wrap it around his waist. He fumbles and hoists her up to perch against the tree. </p>
<p>With his weight loss comes muscle deterioration. She can see his shoulders shake with the exertion of holding her up, but she doesn’t mention it. It’s okay. He’s strong in other ways. </p>
<p>Her jumper sits above her chest, exposing her breasts to him. She hasn’t worn a bra. She doesn’t need to. But the way Draco watches them heave, with glassy eyes and swollen lips, it’s like he’s never seen a pair of breasts before. Perhaps he hasn’t. </p>
<p>He puts his mouth to one and laves it gently, running the bottom of his top teeth over one puckered nipple. She whimpers softly at the feeling and he does it again, then again, then again until she’s squinting against the tree and aching for him to do something else. </p>
<p>There’s no relief from the hard prods of the wood against her back. She has half a mind to cast a cushioning charm, but she doesn’t. She wants to experience this, all of this, as authentic as possible. Even the worst of it. </p>
<p>He shifts his weight so that the tree and one elbow is securing her and reaches down to line himself up with her entrance. </p>
<p>He’s fumbling and awkward, barely knowing where everything is and feeling blindly. But then he’s there, sinking in slowly. He lets out a huff of air as if he’s been drowning, holding his breath for far too long. He leans forward and presses his nose against hers as he starts to move. </p>
<p>Her face is scrunched up, overwhelmed by the stretch below and the new scratches on her back as he moves her to meet his thrusts and the wonderful feeling that tightens her belly when he hits a certain spot inside of her. </p>
<p>It’s over as quickly as it begins. The tight, wet warmth that surrounds him compounded with the urgency to finish before they’re caught spurs him in faster than he’d like to admit. </p>
<p>But she doesn’t mind. Because in the few moments after, as he’s trembling and convulsing against her, he presses his face into her neck and whispers things she wouldn’t dare tell anyone else. They’re hers to keep, the best present she’s ever gotten. </p>
<p>He lets her legs drop and they wobble slightly at having to support her body. She can feel a trickle of fluids running down her thigh, over her calf, pass over her ankle, and onto the ground. When she looks down, there’s a spot of blood in the snow. </p>
<p>She considers it for a moment. When it melts, they’ll be no further proof that they were together here. </p>
<p>They dress silently, not that they were saying much before. Her trousers are soaked from the knee down from lying in the snow. But she still feels warm all over. </p>
<p>She’s the one that leans in this time, gently pressing her mouth to his. <em> Thank you </em> , she hoped it said, <em> this is how I’ll remember you.  </em></p>
<p>They hear someone calling her name in the distance and they break apart with a gasp, their breath like smoke around their faces. The voices are far away still, but getting nearer and nearer with each call. </p>
<p>He rests his forehead against hers, he knows as the darkness of the sky is just an hourglass taunting the hours, or perhaps it’s only minutes, before Christmas is over and the magic that surrounds it crumples around them. </p>
<p>She doesn’t look at him as she pulls away and turns to leave. She wants to remember him in her own way. In his confidence and pride and sometimes unpleasantness. She doesn’t want to remember him scared and desperate. She doesn’t want him to remember her like that either.<br/>“Granger.”</p>
<p>It’s risky to be so loud, especially with someone so close behind. She turns back for one more look. One more moment to meet his eyes across the invisible line that divides them. And he smiles at her, even though his cheeks must be almost as numb as hers. </p>
<p>“Happy Christmas.”</p>
<p>She smiles.</p>
<p>Even if they don’t have a next Christmas, they had this one.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Christmas, 2000</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“I think he’s here.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hermione looked up from the table where she had begun spelling out letters in the flour for Teddy, who was much more interested in how the powder clung to his palms and made handprints on his shirt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ginny was craning her neck to look out of the window above the sink that looked over the front yard. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hermione quickly wiped her hands on a nearby dish rag and joined Ginny at the counter, pressing their shoulders together so she too could see outside. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Though it was still early, it had already fallen dark outside. The puffs of clouds in the sky swirled and casted a grey light onto the snowy ground, which illuminated the figure who stood just yards away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hermione sucked in a breath. Ginny must have heard, or felt the shift in her shoulders, because she nudged her gently. “He’ll come in, don’t worry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hermione nodded. She hadn’t seen him in so long. Not really. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She saw him at the final battle with a split lip and dead eyes. She saw him at his trial with dirt smudged on his cheek and stitches under his right eye. She saw his pictures on covers of the Prophet where they wrote articles about him, </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Defector. </span>
  </em>
  <span>How in the last moments, when it mattered the most, he turned his wand the other way.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Why? </span>
  </em>
  <span>They had asked him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Why? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hermione was no fool, she knew why. He had told her, confessed it against her throat with his cock buried inside her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why is he just standing there?” she mumbled, crossing her arms over each other and furrowing her brow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The storm was just beginning to pick up as it were, flakes falling faster together and clinging to the others that fell before them. He stood just far enough away that only the silhouette of his long coat billowing and the wisps of his long hair that blew in the wind were what little there was to see of him. But he still looked so familiar and she could feel his presence, even though the inches of wood and brick that made up the house. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Teddy screeched noisily behind them and Ginny turned, tutting loudly at the mess the toddler had made of the counter with flour and spit. Hermione looked back over her shoulder as her friend collected the child into her arms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ginny gave her a pointed look. “Perhaps you should go remind him there’s a door?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She turned back to the window as Ginny’s footsteps faded from the kitchen. With a sigh and a flick of her wand hand, the flour blew up in a cloud of white smoke and disappeared from the surface as if it’d never been there at all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It reminded Hermione so much of the snow, how little evidence there was of it when it was gone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With one last glance out the window to confirm that he was still stuck in place, Hermione made for the door, wrapping a wool coat over her shoulders and pulling the collars up over her ears. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just to the left, the rest of the house lounged in the adjoining living room. The men sipped whisky from short glasses, their women perched on their laps. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ginny returned to the room with a newly clean Teddy, who she deposited on Harry’s lap with a kiss to his brow. She looked up to see Hermione at the doorway, suddenly much too warm in her coat. The redhead wordlessly crooked her head towards the window, silently imploring her friend to collect the man outside. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a slight nod, Hermione wrapped the coat more tightly around herself and opened the door. The unsealed vacuum of the open door caused a rush of wind to hit her face and a steady stream of snow to fall at her feet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The light from the opened door casted only a few feet of guidance outside. “Malfoy?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her voice echoed from the wind and back, not reaching as far as needed to be heard by the man outside. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For Merlin’s sake,” she huffed, pulling the jacket zipped up to her chin and stepping out into the night, closing the door tightly behind her before Mrs. Weasley complained of a draft. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The snow crunched loudly under her boots. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Malfoy?” she called again once she was closer. She stopped suddenly when the angles of his face were no longer blurred and silhouetted, but sharp and clear. Familiar. Closer than she had been to him in a year. She cleared her throat, suddenly dry even in the moist air. “I’ve come to collect you from the cold. Everyone’s been waiting for you to start supper.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t look surprised or even conscious of her appearance. He stared blankly at the ground by his feet, having been still so long the snow began to grow around the platforms of his boots. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know why I came.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was odd to hear his voice. She could imagine it sometimes, while reading an article about him. She’d read each quote in his tenor, closing her eyes and imaging him speaking them to her directly. But somehow she forgot how rich it was, how every syllable was spoken with a reason. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mrs. Weasley invited you.” Hermione offered, rubbing her hands together to stimulate warmth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Draco looked up and past her shoulder, not sparing a glance to her face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hermione turned as well, following the line of his eyes to the large window that overlooked the yard. From the yellow light they could see the hazy outlines of the Weasley children gesturing wildly and a smaller shadow of Teddy being passed between them.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What a perfect metaphor for Draco Malfoy, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hermione thought, </span>
  <em>
    <span>watching warmth and happiness from outside freezing, alone. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know why she did that.” When she turned back to face him, his eyes were on her. She let out a startled breath at the suddenness of his stare, somehow colder and more penetrating than the weather. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She didn’t want you to be alone on Christmas.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Draco scoffed, curling his lips into a familiar sneer that was less about distaste and more about self preservation, “It’s just another day.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked down once more, breaking their contact. It wasn’t just another day, not anymore. Not to them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I shouldn’t have come.” He repeated, this time in a whisper that was only carried to her by the wind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell me why.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll do so in three parts,” he began. “First and foremost, it’s an intrusion. Christmas is a time for family and I am not that--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No more than I am,” Hermione interrupted. “Harry is related through Ginny, but I have no connection to the Weasley’s--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You might as well be--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Besides, Teddy is your cousin. So by your standards, you have more business here than I do. But please do continue.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Draco huffed. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Secondly, </span>
  </em>
  <span>I haven’t brought a gift for the host. Which is terrible manners.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“Only if you have something of value to bring. You can’t cook or bake. I doubt you’ve taken up knitting since I last saw you. What could you have offered the Weasley’s?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Draco ground his teeth, flexing his jaw. This was a game they played often, before this. The Strawman. Only it was usually Draco on the intentionally opposing end. There was some pleasure Hermione felt in being the one on the other side for once. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thirdly--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then why </span>
  <em>
    <span>did </span>
  </em>
  <span>you come?” Hermione interrupted him, her toes too cold to entertain any more of his baseless arguments. “It was a process to get here, surely. You had to get dressed. Put on your coat. Your shoes. Apparate to outside the property and walk at least a dozen yards to get to this spot. And in all that time you could have sent an owl with your regards, some excuse or another hopefully better than the ones you’ve just given me. But still, you’re here. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Why?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>They stood silently, just feet from each other. Sizing each other up, neither willing to back down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Allow me to explain in three parts,” he said softly. “Firstly, I had no other offers. Blaise and Pansy are in France. Theo is Jewish. I have no celebrating family, unless you count my father who I’ve heard will be getting boiled ham tonight instead of the usual slop in Azkaban.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stepped forward, the first movement since he arrived and closing the space between them slowly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hermione’s eyes flickered to his hands, which were flexing from an open palm to a closed fist. “Secondly,” he whispered, so close that their shared breath formed one cloud of smoke. “The invitation came attached with a promise of an English trifle. For that, I’m a glutton.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stepped forward again until the tips of their boots pressed together and his nose was hovering just above hers. Hermione’s cheeks tingled with renewed warmth as his hot breath puffed across her face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He licked his lips, his brow wrinkling seriously. “Thirdly--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,” Hermione whispered. “You’ve told me before. I know.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Draco nodded and swallowed. If it was any lighter out or any warmer, Hermione would be able to blame his entire blush on her words. That she heard him, that she remembered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then you also know why I couldn’t come in.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hermione’s hand trembled forward and caught his fingers with hers, hooking them together gently. His touch felt so familiar, like finding a beloved childhood after you thought it was lost forever. Pressing it to your cheek and holding it under your chin like an old friend, picking up right where you left off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I made the trifle.” she answered instead. “Four times actually. The first time I burnt the custard so badly I had to throw out my pan. The second I added so much sherry to the pound cake it turned to mush. The third one was perfect, but I ate it because I was so nervous you wouldn’t come. The fourth one is inside and I’d be very upset if I left it untouched for no reason.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The corners of Draco’s mouth twitched. “An entire trifle?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m in my stretchiest pair of trousers as we speak.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His fingers squeezed hers. “Strawberries or raspberries?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Both. </span>
  <em>
    <span>And </span>
  </em>
  <span>homemade whipped cream.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He finally smiled then, something that could melt the snow around them with its warmth and vibrance. It made her chest tingle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s a good reason to go inside.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Allow me to give you a second.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She used his hand as leverage to pull him forward slightly as she went up onto the tips of her toes to meet his lips. They were chapped and cold from being outside for so long, but it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And a third,” she whispered against his lips, and continued on with everything she wished to tell him just a year ago. Something she knew he’d keep and wouldn’t dare tell anyone else. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They finally made their way inside, their fingers still intertwined. Hermione closed the door tightly behind them, leaving behind the cold and the loneliness on the other side. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Outside the flakes continued to stick together, covering their footprints. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This fic took a village, so I'd like to thank LadyKenz, ComfortableSilences, AND PotionChemist. Make sure to check out the rest of the fics in this collection as well! </p><p>You can find me on tumblr: dirty-mudblood.tumblr.com</p></blockquote></div></div>
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